I bite my tongue, quietly seething as I resist the urge to look back at the owner of the deep, honeyed voice calling out in a bored tone.
“Let me rephrase,” I say as evenly as I can manage, keeping my attention on the man in front of me. “You said in your statement that you would often see a visitor coming to the house while Mrs. Johanson was home alone. Is that correct, Mr. Crane?”
The man nods, peeking warily at the woman in question. “That’s correct.”
“And during those visits, where was Mr. Johanson?”
“He was usually at work, ma’am.”
“And this visitor, was it a man or a woman?”
“It was a man.”
I bite back a grin. “I see. How long would this man stay?”
Mr. Crane reaches to scratch at his thinning hair, shifting in his seat. It had taken me a hell of a lot to get him on the stand; in the end it was only the promise from Mr. Johanson that he would keep his gardening job regardless of the outcome of this trial that he finally agreed.
“It varied,” Mr. Crane said. “Sometimes an hour. Sometimes more.”
“So it’s safe to assume that Mrs. Johanson knew this man . . . well, correct?”
“Objection.” I hear a sigh behind me. “Speculation.”
“Rephrase,” I say tightly, still refusing to look at him. “Did you ever see Mrs. Johanson and the man interacting when he would visit, Mr. Crane?”
Mr. Crane shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He always went straight inside the house.”
“But it was always the same man?”
“Yes, ma’am. As far as I could tell.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crane.” I give my attention to Judge Hoffstein. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I try not to look at him when I return to my table, I really do—but that pull is there, the one I so desperately wish didn’t plague me anytime we’re in the same room together. I can feel his eyes linger on me when I’m finally able to avert my gaze, feel it like the weight of his fingers along my skin as I retake my seat.
He stands slowly, one hand reaching to fasten the button of his suit—a deft, practiced motion that makes the veins in his too-large hands flex—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn there, remembering the warmth of them on my body hardly even a week ago. I catch a hint of a smirk when I turn my face to meet his eyes, feeling warmth creep up my neck as I clench my teeth.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
I train my eyes forward, keeping them on the nervous older man on the stand, in quiet support.
“Mr. Crane,” Ezra starts. “Did you know Mrs. Johanson’s visitor?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I was told that—”
“That’s hearsay,” Ezra cuts him off. “What you heard is irrelevant.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling casually to the side and flicking his gaze to mine for the briefest of moments. “I’m asking if you ever actually met Mrs. Johanson’s visitor.”
Mr. Crane’s eyes dart to mine, looking unsure. “Well, no, I didn’t.”
“So there’s no possible way for you to know the purpose of that man’s visits. Correct?”
Mr. Crane is quiet for a moment, and my heart thuds in my ribs. There’s no way that Ezra can possibly suggest—
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I could not.”
“I see.” Ezra’s mouth turns up in the ghost of a smile. “Just as you couldn’t know of Mrs. Johanson’s recent interests in spiritual direction?”
“I . . .” Mr. Crane blinks with confusion, and I can feel the same emotion playing on Mr. Johanson’s and my faces. “No? I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Ezra practically coos. “It’s not something she advertised. The only people who knew this were her close friends. Well, and her husband, of course.” Ezra looks back at our table. “Although I very much doubt Mr. Johanson would recall this, given that he rarely took note of Mrs. Johanson’s interests.”
“Objection,” I call. “Speculation.”
“Withdrawn,” Ezra says with a grin. “Mr. Crane, did you know that the man you saw coming in and out of Mrs. Johanson’s house was her spiritual advisor?”
Oh, what a load of horseshit.
“Objection, Your Honor,” I almost laugh. “This is irrelevant.”
Ezra directs his attention to the judge. “This is completely relevant, Your Honor, I assure you.”
Judge Hoffstein nods minutely. “Overruled.”
“Thank you.” Ezra inclines his head. “You see, Mrs. Johanson’s visitor, a Mr. Jacobs, had been hired several weeks prior by Mrs. Johanson to oversee her spiritual direction. There was nothing nefarious about their encounters. If you’ll be so kind as to take a look at Exhibit 13—you’ll note the credentials I’ve provided to prove Mr. Jacobs’s employment at a company offering such services.”
Son of a bitch. How did we miss that?
Ezra looks smug as the judge peruses the bit of evidence in question; to an outsider he would simply look contemplative, but I’ve seen that look on his face too many times. In and out of the courtroom.
“Mrs. Johanson was simply exploring her new faith,” Ezra continues. “There is no evidence to suggest that she and Mr. Jacobs were meeting under false pretenses, and she paid him for his time. Therefore, this line of questioning isn’t relevant to this alimony hearing.”
Ezra waits until the exhibit has been passed to the bailiff before he turns back to the witness. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Crane.” He looks to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Ezra takes his seat on his side of the courtroom, a small smile on his lips, practically laughing at the way I’m shooting daggers right now. I feel Mr. Johanson lean into me, whispering, “She can’t seriously pull this shit, can she?”
I want to tell him no, that cheating spouses get what they deserve—that doesn’t include an overly fat alimony check—but I know that without any concrete evidence of infidelity, which we haven’t been able to unearth no matter how hard we’ve looked, it’s likely Mrs. Johanson will be milking her soon-to-be-ex-husband dry for years to come.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I wait for the elevator to open, trying to stave off the headache forming behind my eyes. It had taken weeks to find out about Mrs. Johanson’s little spiritual advisor who came twice a week like clockwork, unbeknownst to her husband while he was at work, and it had felt like an ace in the hole. Until Ezra swooped in and plugged it right up, that is.
They call him “the heartbreak prince” in the papers; it’s a stupid fucking moniker that he absolutely eats up, I’m sure. His win record is astounding, and every time I have to be in the same courtroom with him, I know I’m in for a world of bullshit. Not to say I haven’t won against him, because I have—but not nearly as much as I’d like, today included.
The elevator dings, and I climb inside, grateful to find it empty as I settle against the back wall to let my head thunk against the cool metal. I close my eyes as I wait for the doors to close, only snapping them back open when I hear something nudging between them to force them back open.
“Room for one more?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You could always take the stairs. Get a workout in.”
Ezra laughs as he strolls into the elevator, leaning against the bar at the back wall as I scoot away from him. “You’ve never had any complaints about my body.”
I glare up at him as the elevator doors slide closed, trapping us inside. He always knows exactly what to say to push my buttons, just like he knows that his stupid face and body are lethal distractions when it comes to remembering how much I dislike him. It’s not the dark blond hair that always looks like someone just ran their fingers through it, not the full mouth or the piercing green eyes or the amazing bone structure that makes his face look carved—it’s all of it, really. The broad shoulders that fill out his tailored suits a little too well, his long fingers that stir up wicked memories, even his stupid cologne makes you want to lean in closer to get a better whiff.
At least he only has four to five inches on me—I’ve always been on the taller side, and not having to crane my neck up to his six foot three from my five foot nine gives me an ounce of satisfaction. Especially in my heels.
“Yeah, well, that’s just about the only good thing you have going for you,” I mumble back, facing my eyes forward to watch the numbers tick by and mentally urging them to go faster.
There’s a contrast between us in the reflection of the shiny metal doors—my inky black hair to his golden brown, my pale skin to his bronzed, his brawn to my lithe figure—looking at us side by side, one would never think to put us together.
Which we aren’t, I mentally correct. Together. Because we aren’t.
Except . . .
“Really?” He inches a little closer. “I’m told I’m pretty charming.”
“Are those people on your payroll?”
“I can think of a few times when you’ve found me charming, Dani.”
I roll my eyes. I’m used to people calling me Dani; when you have a name like Danica, I guess it’s easy to jump to the nickname—but something about the way Ezra says it always makes my stomach do something funny. I’m sure I’m not the only one Ezra amuses himself with. There’s no doubt in my mind that his easy playboy act comes from vast amounts of real-life experience—yet I can’t help but wonder if anyone else in what is surely a very wide net of his sexual conquests succumbs to his annoyingly effective charms quite as often (albeit begrudgingly) as I do.
“I can assure you I have never found you charming,” I toss back dryly. “Maybe mildly amusing. Your dick, at least.”
He clutches his hand to his chest, and I try not to notice how large it looks against his tie. “Only mildly? That isn’t what you said when you were screaming my—”
The elevator doors slide open as we come to a halt, and I immediately bolt out of it, trying to put distance between Ezra and me before he notices how flushed my neck most likely is. Not that he lets me escape that easily, since I hear his footsteps, heavy and quick as he catches up to me.
“I’m free tonight, you know,” he says casually.
I keep my expression blank, hoping the people milling around in the lobby don’t notice how close he’s walking beside me. “Good for you. Sounds like an excellent time to take up a hobby.”
“Oh, but I would much rather enjoy the one I’ve already got.”
I glance at him from the side, frowning. “What’s that?”
“See, there’s this certain opposing counsel who makes the most delicious noises when my fingers are—”
I spin on my heel, hissing under my breath as we come to a stop in front of the large glass doors that lead outside of the courthouse. “I told you,” I grit out. “Last time was the last time.”
“Right.” He flashes me his white, perfect teeth—stark against the deep pink of his lips, and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on his. “But you said that the time before that.” He leans in a little closer, practically looming over me as he lowers his voice. “And the time before that . . . and the time before that . . .”
“I mean it this time,” I argue, trying to convince him or me, I’m not sure. “It was stupid to begin with. You’re an asshole, and I was . . .” Hard up? Horny? Out of my mind? “It was a lapse of judgment on my part.”
“Eight lapses of judgment,” Ezra says with a low whistle. “I think they call that a bad habit, Dani. Maybe you need a hobby. You know, besides me.”
I clench my fists at my sides; I know he’s teasing me, but it hits a little too close to home. Especially because I know that constantly sleeping with Ezra—someone I barely tolerate outside of what we do behind closed doors—is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. After everything with Grant . . . you’d think I would make smarter decisions when it comes to the opposite sex.
It’s just sex, I soothe myself. Just scratching an itch.
Even if I’ve scratched this particular itch more times than I’d like.
I make a frustrated sound, shoving him away and pushing through the doors as I stalk off quickly. He doesn’t follow me this time, but I can hear his stupid laugh even from halfway down the steps.
Fucking. Ezra. Hart.
I feel a little less out of sorts when I’m back at the firm; I’m not thrilled to tell my boss how miserably today went with the Johansons, but at least here I can put the headache of Ezra and my antagonistic . . . whatever we have . . . at the back of my mind for a little bit. I drop my case files in my office, noticing on my way out that Nate’s and Vera’s are empty; I guess they’ve already headed home for the day.
The door to Manuel’s office is cracked at the other end of the hall, however, and I step toward it to update him on everything before I finish up for the day myself. I find him sitting behind his desk poring over a stack of papers, his neat, salt-and-pepper hair swept into his usual perfect style. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Manuel Moreno with a single hair out of place, and since Chicago is known as the Windy City, that is a feat.
“Danica,” he greets as I knock lightly against the open door. “Come in, come in. How did it go today?”
I purse my lips. “Not as well as I would have liked. The guy she was seeing was apparently her ‘spiritual advisor.’ ”
The deep wrinkle that lives permanently between Manuel’s brow worsens. “That’s the horseshit they’re spinning?”
“Well, horseshit does happen to be a specialty of Ezra’s.”
“I want to hate the bastard,” Manuel snorts. “But he’s damn good.”
I refuse to even acknowledge how “good” Ezra is.
“I’ve got a lead on a housekeeper who quit a couple of months ago,” I tell him. “I’m trying to get in touch with her. Maybe she saw something between them of a more physical nature.”
“Great. Let me know.”
I’m about to return to my desk when he stops me.
“I actually wanted to talk to you,” he calls.
I turn back. “Yes?”
“We had a potential client call today. A Mrs. Vassiliev.”
I frown. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Her husband owns Vassiliev Development.”
“Shit.” My mouth parts in surprise. “The real estate mogul?”
“He owns half the city, practically. God knows how many others.”
“They’re divorcing?”
“It appears so. A friend of mine recommended us.”
“That’s great.” I wince. “Well, not for her, but . . .”
“I was thinking that you should take it.”
I blink back at him. “What?”
“You’ve been here for six years now. You mentioned last year that you were interested in a junior partner position, and with Hinata retiring . . .”
“Wait, are you saying . . . ?”
“I’m saying that Mrs. Vassiliev stands to make this firm an enormous amount of money if she comes out on top in her divorce. She claims to have all sorts of evidence of his infidelity.”
“Holy shit.”
“But there’s a catch.”
“There always is.”
“She signed a prenup.”
I groan. “Of course she did. How solid is her evidence?”
“I guess that’s for you to find out.”
“Not making this easy for me, huh?”
“High risk, high reward,” he chuckles before his expression turns serious. “I think winning this case would be the perfect thing to bring to the other partners and prove you’re ready to step up.”
“You’d be willing to go to bat for me?”
Manuel rolls his eyes. “I’ve known you since you were seven. As many T-ball games as I went to with you and your parents, I have ‘gone to bat’ for you plenty of times in your life.”
“That’s corny, but I’ll take it,” I laugh. “I just . . . You already stuck your neck out giving me this job, and I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting special treatment just because you and Dad are old friends.”
“You graduated top of your class at Harvard Law. It was hardly a burden to offer you a position here. Just like it won’t be when you win this case, and I show the other partners what an asset you are.”
“I . . . Wow. Yes. Of course. This is . . . Wow.”
“You have a meeting with Mrs. Vassiliev at the end of the week,” he informs me. “She’s a character, but I think you can handle her.”
I nod aimlessly. “Yes. I . . . Thank you, Manny.”
“Don’t mention it.” He waves me off. “Feel free to loop Nate and Vera in. I’m sure they’ll be foaming at the mouth to be a part of it regardless.”
I grin. He isn’t wrong about that. This is one of the biggest cases we’ve had since I started. I can already hear Nate squealing. “I will.”
“Don’t stay up at your desk all night,” he chides. “You have to sleep sometime.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
He gives me a dismissive gesture as he turns his attention back to his paperwork, and I leave his office with a wide smile on my face and a fluttering in my stomach. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for the last year or more, and now with it so close—I can feel a bubbling excitement humming under my skin.
A buzzing in the pocket of my slacks distracts me as I walk back to my desk, and all the elated feelings simmer out into annoyance as I take note of the message.
ASSHOLE: I’ll be home all night if you change your mind about . . . coming.
I grimace. That was terrible, even for him. Which makes the little flicker of warmth in my gut all the more infuriating. Sleeping with Ezra Hart had been a bad idea the first time it happened, something I blame on temporary insanity and thinking with my vagina—and the next seven times definitely didn’t help things.
If only he wasn’t so good at it. Bastard.
I tap out a quick response, shoving down the urges that bubble up in spite of his stupid fucking text.
ME: Sorry. Better things to do.
I feel smug for about three seconds before my phone pings again.
ASSHOLE: I highly doubt there’s better than me, but keep telling yourself that.
I scowl, shoving my phone in my pocket.
Fucking Ezra Hart.